


What Kind of Fuckery is This?

by 192000_505



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 3.9 is a thing now, Drabbles, Gen, Gratuitous French, Phase 3.9, Platonic Nudoc, Profanity, oh yeah I translated the French myself so sorry for any conjugation errors!, under 1k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/192000_505/pseuds/192000_505
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt: "...it seems musings resembling sentimentality always seem to drift through his debauched mind in moments near rum-induced sleep."<br/>Title taken from "Me and Mr. Jones" by Amy Winehouse</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Kind of Fuckery is This?

**Author's Note:**

> Request from yippy-skippy-skua on Tumblr for a fic involving "Noodle and Murdoc in jail after doing something stupid at the bar", which was fun to imagine and fun to write! Thanks!

> _Nobody stands in between me and my man_  
>  _'Cause it's Me and Mr Jones_
> 
> _-"Me and Mr Jones", Amy Winehouse_

She was simultaneously fierce and carefree, something that she’d always been, as a ten year old super-soldier with a penchant for flipping things over, then as a haunted but brilliant sixteen year old humming along to an old White Stripes song, and now..?

Now… she was the epitome of some sort of trickster guitar goddess; untouchable and unflappable, vulgar and vivacious.

Murdoc had decided that this as a fact of life that he’d have to accept, even during a hangover at 3AM in a cell in the middle of some odd town in the middle of some Francophone country while she shrieks awful threats in French at a petrified policeman.

Or not.

“Noodle. Shut up,”

“Calm down, old man, I’m just trying to get my mobile,” she retorts, and, without looking, he knows she’s smirking; he can hear her holding back a laugh.

        “What could you possibly need it for?” Murdoc growls, not even knowing why he’s humoring her.

        “To put your sorry green arse on the Snap.”

He sighs and takes this answer as it is, she’s attempted to explain Snapchat to him a myriad of times- with rising amusement in her tone with each time.

“ _C’est des conneries! Je suis un citoyen Anglais!_ ” she shouts.

“It’s nothin’ to do with your citizenship, love, it’s more an issue over your affinity for ranting about the French government’s institutionalised racism  while shit-faced.”

She turns and shoots him a dark look, the smirk gone. “They _are_ blatantly Islamophobic and just plain stupid.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t, but there’s a time and place for everything, doll.”

“Says the man that is currently incarcerated for single-handedly starting a bar fight that quite literally burned down an entire block?”

        He shrugs, quietly happy to once again be the agitator as opposed to the ‘agitat-ee’, and moves over on the bench, a silent invitation for her to sit.

          She shouts one final obscenity then scowls and accepts Murdoc's offer, apparently tired of yelling at a brick wall, or more accurately, a terrified constable. When she finally settles down next to him, still fuming silently, she doesn’t protest when he wo'rdlessly curls up to her and lays his head on her shoulder.

        He's reminded of their previous interactions with jails- like the time she was fifteen and annoyed as she bailed him out with her pocket money, or when he broke a very cross, very violent 22 year old out of a legitimate penitentiary, after she found the need to murder their landlord.

        He laughs aloud at the memory of the former, it seems musings resembling sentimentality always seem to drift through his debauched mind in moments near rum-induced sleep.

"Hush," she growls, interrupting his fatigued hysterics.

        It's the same way they've been since forever, string-calloused fingers and trouble.

        Trouble that will undoubtedly get the two of them a hell of a tounge-lashing courtesy of Russel when he inevitably picks them up in a few hours.


End file.
